


Heavy Musk

by ChaoticBlades



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It (The Magnus Archives), Anal Fingering, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Suicidal Ideation and Catastrophizing, Cunnilingus, Do Not Archive, F/M, Fellatio, M/M, Misuse of Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Overstimulation, Partial Mind Control, Possessive Sex, Praise Kink, Predicament Bondage, Rimming, Subdrop, Unreliable Narrator, Victim Blaming, elias is a bastard and thats why we love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29604825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticBlades/pseuds/ChaoticBlades
Summary: Jon happens upon a distressed pedestrian and tries to help, but can only watch as their struggles become his own.or:There's a dearth of sexy earth at the TMA berth
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Heavy Musk

**Author's Note:**

> It doesn't really come up, but my gender HC's for the ones who show up are:
> 
> Cis: Martin, Tim, Melanie, Jonah/Elias  
> Non-Binary Trans: Jon (amab, doesn't engage enough w/pride to realize there's a word for it), Basira (afab, genderfluid, comfy w/gender but bringing it up is effort/drama she can't be bothered with when it comes to her rapport-less team)
> 
> (Put here solely because I'm an afab man and I have ~Opinions~ don't @ me {or do, it's all good})
> 
> And my racial HC's:
> 
> Jon: Mizrahi Jewish on his dad's side (dad got cultural upbringing, grandma {canon-typically} didn't bother with Jon), Anglo-Saxon on mom's side  
> Martin: Polish on mom's side, some flavor of Germanic/Anglo-Saxon on his dad's  
> Basira: Iraqi family, born on the Isles  
> Tim: Malaysian, dual citizenship  
> Melanie: Chinese, born on the Isles  
> Jonah/Elias: some flavor of Jewish, makes a point of never body-hopping into goyim, part of why Jon connected to him pre-Archives and worked so hard to impress  
> Daisy: very Welsh
> 
> (You can also check out my animatics on YouTube if you want a clearer picture. No pressure. None at all. I-It's not like I CARE if you watch them, b-baka~! ...I think I just lost a year off my life)

Jon was nearly to the Institute when he caught sight of the vandal.

Chest heaving, hoodie tightened to reveal no more than a single eye, and labouriously tearing pages out of a small, leatherbound book, they would struggle to cut a more suspicious figure. Passers-by kept as much distance as one could on a pavement, not that it stopped the object of their disconcertment from flinching back from each. The resulting jerky dance made Jon shudder and draw his coat tighter around the neck, reminded of his own book troubles.

The thought gave him pause; _could_ it be a Leitner? They were certainly behaving oddly enough to suggest it. If so, he couldn't justify leaving it be, no matter how yawning his dread.

A moment's more hesitation.

Then, fussing with his collar, he stepped in close, met their dilated eye, and quietly asked, "Did that book belong to Jurgen Leitner?"

"I—I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking!" they hissed, backing away.

"That's not what I—!"

But it was too late.

The stranger bumped up against someone, and that was all it took to startle them into bolting, leaving only the muddy litter behind.

With little else he could do, Jon scooped up the pages and continued on his way.

* * *

He was, as usual, the first in the building. Without any choice but to wait until business hours to turn them in to Artefact Storage, he took them to his own office.

In better lighting, he was quick to realize that the pages weren't paper at all—it was vellum, filled edge to edge with lettering as beautiful as it was cramped. Seeing that it was handwritten, Jon allowed some of the tension to ease; Leitners, as a rule, were printed.

(He tried not to think about Mary Keay's skin book.)

Keeping his gloves on, he spread the pages across the floor. There were four in total, one of which was dated.

"Interesting," he mused aloud, idly noting the whir of a recorder he'd not switched on, "I'll have to ask Martin about stationary trends; I wouldn't have thought vellum would be popular in the 80's."

Maybe he'd gotten too used to the tape recorder—with it at hand, it was easy to forget that it was not, in fact, a statement he held.

_January 11th, 1987_

_Dear Diary,_

_I tried to talk to Ed again, but the words wouldn't come out. I don't even love him anymore. I don't want to live like this anymore. Every time he leaves I think about the packed suitcase I left at Lisa's. I could just run away, but I haven't. Does that mean that he's right? That I need this kind of pressure to make decisions? The longer I stay, the more I feel like... like I'm being crushed, but in a good way? I don't like it, I really don't, but it's starting to feel like I don't know who I am without it. Like if I wasn't I'd have no form at all. Sort of like an egg? If he didn't wrap me up so tight, whoever 'Bridgette' is would go all runny._

_I hope he doesn't read you again—I know it's just to keep me safe but the attention gets smothering sometimes, you know? There's only so much a girl can take._

_Speaking of which, even if I did leave, I don't know how well my legs would hold up. To think a year ago I was nervous about a little rope! If I'd known then just how compact I could be made, would I have run away? Last night was the tightest yet—I swear my knees touched the mattress past my ears! Between the rope and all his muscle I couldn't move an inch. Could barely breathe, and not just when he was choking me either. I'm surprised the neighbors haven't complained about the smell yet... the air was so thick with our sweat and... well, you know. I can still smell it. I can taste it too._

_God, I don't even know what I'm complaining about. Edward was right about the ropes and my friends and my feminine needs. He's probably right about this too. I feel so much better when I just... let him take control. What would I even do if I went back to my old life? I'm nothing special, just another pretty-ish face in a sea of pretty-ish faces. The world is so big outside of our lovely little flat... big and empty and vague... and Edward holds me so tight._

_I wonder if I ever loved him, or if something primal inside me knew that I needed his kind of man. Yeah, I bet he knew just by looking at me—I need to be anchored to be happy. Lisa keeps saying he's smothering me, but what does she know? I've never slept better than with his cock in my pussy and his hand around my neck. You understand, don't you, diary? The people who really care about me know what I want and need even before I do and are more than happy to show me the way, fill me up so tight that I never feel empty again._

"E-end recording," Jon gasped. Though the tightness in his chest eased, he suspected, based on his very real longing to read the rest of the pages, that Bridgette's assertions would continue to resonate.

 _Should I even keep the tape?_ _The effects, if any, may prove transmittable via audio_ _._ Slipping the pages (and tape) into a manila folder, he hastened to Artefact Storage, determined to ambush whichever unlucky researcher clocked in first.

* * *

By the time he'd submitted the report and was declared clean by the standard battery of tests, it was late enough that even the stragglers would be in. Sure enough, his four assistants were sat at their desks, some of whom were even working. He wondered if anyone had noticed him missing. Maybe he could slip into his office before they noticed?

"Jon!"

He should've known that would be too lucky for him.

Martin bustled over, scanning him first with just his eyes, then grasping his arms to manoeuvre him to better angles. "Where have you _been?_ "

Ignoring the others' stares—as best he could, anyway, when they were watching with the same still intensity of a big cat waiting to strike—Jon nervously slid the worn leather of his gloves against itself and explained, "Artefact Storage—I found a Leitner and—and I had to get it sorted."

But they had all stopped listening after 'Leitner'. Although Martin blocked his view of most of the room, he could hear the dialing of a mobile, revealed to be Basira's by the snatches of her voice demanding that Daisy hurry back. He caught a glimpse of Melanie slinking away, whereas Tim moved to be nearly as close as Martin. Both their faces were stony, unreadable.

"I passed inspection?" he tacked on, squirming under the attention.

"Take it off," Tim ordered.

He took half a step back, immediately bumping into Martin. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Your clothes." Easily reclosing the distance, Tim's nostrils drew up. "You're a monster now, remember? Different metrics."

"I, uh, I—"

This close he could feel the rumble in Martin's belly as he said, "That's enough, Tim. You can't expect Jon to do that."

He breathed out in relief. A relief that was to be short-lived, however, as the arms that had never quite stilled in their fussing scooped him up by the armpits, the difference in height leaving his feet to kick in the air.

"You know how he is," Martin sighed, ignoring his yelp of distress as he nuzzled into his hair, "Anxious, shy, by-the-book...."

Tim rolled his eyes. "You can just say 'repressed'."

" _Tim._ "

It was strangely comforting to see him throw up his arms in a now-familiar snap of frustration. For just a moment, Jon held out hope that whatever was happening—a delayed effect of the Leitner? a process not accounted for in the otherwise thorough diagnostic?—at least one of his assistants had begun to shake it off. Tim and Daisy were probably the only ones capable of separating him from Martin without causing harm to either party. Basira was a possibility too, though the fact that she had yet to intervene didn't fill him with confidence.

But then Tim pushed his flailing legs aside to get at his buckle, and he knew that it was only getting worse.

* * *

_Christ, no wonder he's been such a pain in the arse,_ Tim thought sourly, contemplating Jon's belt. Discarding it as too worn to be useful. _This is my fault, isn't it? Because I ignored all the warning signs._

Sure, Jon had been objectively terrible since the promotion, but how could he not? All those times they'd claimed to be his friends and they'd _still_ let him play the boss, betrayed him down to his core. Let him starve—hadn't _noticed_ how starved he was, how _pained_. Martin at least had the excuse of not knowing him beforehand. And yet he was the closest to actually fulfilling his needs.

Because Jonathan Sims was the subbiest sub alive, and he deserved to be treated that way.

"Tim, wait, please, the Leitner—!" Jon began.

"I know, Jon," he replied as softly as possible.

Relief and gratitude welled up in Jon's eyes. "You—you do...?"

Time nodded and, at a stern look from Martin, took time away from fiddling with Jon's trousers to cradle his face. "I'll make it up to you, promise; I'll fill you up from so many directions, you won't know your head from your arse."

Jon gasped. His tears shook free of his dark, dark eyelashes. "Wait, no, you can't—I don't want—!" The words got caught in his throat, finishing as a needy whine.

_Slap!_

"Brat," said Tim, smoothing his hand over the cheek he'd just reddened.

Before he could return to his task, Martin cleared his throat. "Why don't we start with the shirt?"

A prissy button-up in a blah shade of green (or was it grey? brown? a particularly muddy yellow?).

He moistened his lips, not missing the way Jon's eyes tracked the motion. "Just tear it off, right? Can do."

"Mn, not quite."

Shifting Jon's weight full onto his left arm, Martin let his hand drift down to the top button, slowly tracing its rim with his fingers. Then, in a single swift stroke, he hooked the fingers behind it and yanked it clean off.

Jon let out a choked-off sob.

 _Can do you one better_ , he thought, leaning in to close his mouth around the next. The angle needed to make eye contact was hell on his neck, but worth it to the uptight man go red as he teased the button like it was his nipple—licking, a few false nips, and sucking it in, finally biting it clean off. He straightened to show off his prize, rewarded by the heaving of a scrawny bosom.

"T-Tim...."

_That's more like it._

He ducked down again. This time, he knelt and held Jon's waist as he kissed his way down his chest before playing with the button; there were only four more, after all, and Jon was the sort to enjoy a slow build before the climax. Occasionally he would let his tongue slip through the gap between buttons to taste the skin beneath, which earned him a sharp gasp every time. When the last button had been removed, Jon slumped, relieved, into Martin's arms.

Tim took a moment to rest at his navel to enjoy the faint heat through the thin cloth, as well as the scent of sweat. Before everything happened, Jon had been the type to shower once (or even twice) daily, apply pomade, shave at the slightest hint of stubble, and tuck in his shirt. His hygienic standards had dipped down to 'normal human' after a few weeks with Gertrude's mess, overcompensated during Prentiss' siege, and gotten erratic after the attack, either stripping his skin and hair raw or accumulating filth as he plotted. Now that he was back, his routine had clearly changed again, letting his natural scent mingle with that of cheap cigarettes and whatever product left a hint of cedarwood.

"Stop dawdling," ordered Basira. When he glanced her way, she was changing out her usual work clothes—yoga pants, trainers, and a baggy jumper—for a long skirt, a ruffled blouse, and heels, though she kept on the hijab.

"Going to step on him?" he asked.

She gave a noncommittal hum and unlocked the drawer in her desk reserved for Daisy's use. "I'll step on you if you don't get on with it."

There was a time when he would've replied with a half-joking flirtation, but it felt like a long time again. Instead, he did as she asked and unzipped Jon's trousers with his teeth. Jon immediately began trying to work them down with only his legs and wiggling hips, in the process grinding his bulge against Tim's nose. Tim sighed and pulled down the trousers and pants in one go.

To his consternation, what he'd always _assumed_ to be a packer was a flesh-and-blood penis; in his defense, Jon was short and slender, verging on twiglike, and had delicate features, slightly wide hips, and such slow-growing facial hair that it bordered on permastubble. _Joke's on me for making assumptions. I'm glad Sasha talked me out of the pride cake for his birthday...._

As an apology, he gave it a kiss on the head.

Jon froze.

Tim grinned back, not even trying to keep his pent-up aggression secret. By the time he was done, all the bad blood would be behind them.

* * *

"You all took your time," Melanie groused as the others joined her in the breakroom. At least it'd given her time to set things up.

Tim flipped her off as he led the way, Martin following with an armload of nude archivist and Basira at the rear with a collection of ropes and handcuffs. It didn't take long to negotiate how to get things started, proving once and for all that Jon being in charge had always been the problem. While the boys stripped down, Basira held Jon still so Melanie could measure his neck.

"M-Melanie, don't—you don't want to do this, please!" Jon whispered. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that he was really good at roleplay, though that was a given with how he recorded statements.

"God, would it kill you to be patient," she snapped, nevertheless giving in to his demands with a backhand. A little voice that sounded like Georgie reminded her that he _had_ been waiting for the better part of two years, but she ignored it in favor of marking her belt. One punch of the awl and they had a makeshift collar.

He jerked his head this way and that to avoid it but soon it latched into place. Melanie tugged it a bit, just to see how he'd react; his face twisted in desperation as he was pulled just far enough to feel the burn. While he wasn't remotely her type, she had to admit it lit something inside her to see him submit; she was pretty sure that if she could ever confess to Georgie, the story would make for excellent wank fodder. It gave her a thought.

"Hey, are we going to record this?" she asked.

Basira nodded to the heap of Martin's clothes, atop which a tape recorder smugly sat. "Started up as soon as Jon showed."

A full-bodied shudder ran down his spine.

"We're ready, if you want to let him go, Basira," said Martin, walking back into view.

Looking him up and down, she knew him and Jon were going to be a _masterpiece_ , and she reflexively turned to check on a nonexistent camera crew. Where Jon was a textbook tsundere twink, Martin, already a big man, was surprisingly large when he actually let himself take up space. She had to wonder if he grew up on a farm or something, since he had the kind of muscle mass that you didn't get at the gym—firm and round under soft rolls of fat. On the hairy side too. She'd known he was gay but she hadn't realised he was a straight-up _bear._

Best of all was the contrast between their cocks: Jon looked to be on the small side of average, whereas Martin was hung like a pornstar. When Tim joined him, he was more the classic Greek statue kind of handsome with a very sensible size hardening between his legs.

As soon as Basira released him, Jon immediately began acting up again—stuttering excuses, pleading for freedom. It was when he grasped the lead in an attempt to yank it from her hands that Melanie let go, sending him tumbling onto his arse.

"—swear I'll keep to my office, so you don't need—you don't need to do this to me!" he babbled, scrambling backwards as they approached.

" _Jon._ " She'd never heard Basira sound so stern.

Apparently he hadn't either, because he froze.

"You have two choices, Jon," continued Basira, stepping between his splayed legs and resting her heel on his cock, just firm enough to act as a warning, "You can run away or do as you're told. And if you pick the wrong one...." She put more weight on the point of contact, enough to wring out a miserable whimper. "...Daisy gets to call the shots."

His chest heaved, eyes flicking rapidly between his caregivers. He said nothing.

Basira pressed down harder for an instant more before retreating, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. "Give it back to Melanie and apologize."

Jon slowly crept onto his knees and made to rise, only to falter when Melanie glared.

 _That's right, back where you belong,_ she thought as he settled down. She could almost get the appeal of him like this: trembling, vulnerable, begging to be owned. Who knew that all it would take to make him tolerable was a view from above?

"I, ah," he began, voice husky with lust, "I'm sorry, Melanie. For taking the, uh... I'm sorry. It was wrong of me and... I hope you'll forgive me?" He offered up the 'handle' of the leash, fluttering his eyes as he spoke.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she scoffed. It wasn't entirely an act; if he was so damn arrogant that he thought a little flirting would get him what he wanted, he deserved everything he got.

She saw the exact moment he realized his mistake, nostrils flared and looking nervously to Basira. He crawled forward, enough to put him back in range of her short arms, and hung his head as he held the leash aloft. Past injuries were clearly strained in doing so, but his shaking belied the longing in his voice as he chanted, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please take it back...."

 _Just this once, I'll go easy on you_. Melanie wound the belt around her hand until she could grasp the buckle. Then, tilting his head up, she slapped him again.

"...Th-thank you."

She grinned.

"He _can_ be taught!" said Tim, "Let's see what else he can learn."

* * *

So much time spent contemplating ways to make the Coffin enticing, all gone to waste by a single page.

It was funny how things turned out.

"I suppose this was your doing," Elias said to the spider in the corner.

It gave no indication either way.

He chuckled and closed his eyes, the better to witness his Archivist's Marking.

Four sets of eyes, four perspectives from which to watch Jon be made to brace himself against the countertop. Four sets of ears to listen to his sweet little cries as he counted off the strikes to his rear, spanking and belting both.

Melanie and Tim were his tormentors by turn—the only ones with the stomach for it, the need to hurt and humiliate Jon the way they perceived that he had so often done to them. Elias was briefly surprised that the Leitner had not similarly affected Martin, assuming it to be his infatuation at play, until he sank deeper behind his eyes; for all that they were less openly violent, Martin's desires ran as dark as the others'.

Jon started and met Elias' gaze.

_Very good, Archivist._

A cocktail of despair and pain and betrayal contorted his face.

{elias}

_{please please please}_

{save me why wont you youre watching you must be please dont i mean anything to you}

_{just a tool you dont care}_

{why is this happening}

_{you planned this you keep letting me hurt you want me to hurt}_

{elias i trusted you}

_{after everything you did to me and everyone and me it hurts hurts hurts hurts}_

"Oh, Jon, ye of little faith. You'll understand when you're _older_."

That this was for the best for both of them.

That the experience alone would soothe the hunger he dared not acknowledge.

That Elias had already intervened to soften the desires of his bespelled subordinates, and would do so again when Detective Tonner finished her commute.

For now, he was satisfied to gorge himself on the spectacle before him, to replace banal violence with more inspired urges.

To idly stroke his cock and _watch_.

* * *

"Tw-twenty!" Jon gasped, desperately hoping it was the correct number.

Apparently it was, for no more blows were forthcoming; when a hand again fell it was to stroke the tender skin. By the calluses he guessed it was Tim.

It was confirmed when he murmured, "Look at at you, blushing like a virgin."

Then his mouth. Was on Jon's _arse_.

"Ah—!" Jon choked back the cry too late. Melanie was already laughing, Martin cooing, and Tim took it as an invitation to proceed.

Kissing and nipping, he made his way to Jon's clenched rim, which he attacked with the gusto of one whose ice cream was in danger of plopping out of the cone. He was audibly enjoying himself—lapping sounds, little hums of appreciation—and it filled Jon with sparks of queasiness to listen. A deep kiss, chapped lips giving it a slight burn. A wide sweep—were human tongues really that textured and he'd never noticed? He pulled away, only to go in behind the balls and lick slowly upwards, to the point Jon tried to manoeuvre his hips into place to get it over with.

He got a swat to the flank.

Martin sighed, "Tim, that's not helping. Let's get him in a better position."

"W-wait, Martin, please...!" gasped Jon.

But he was too late. With Tim retreating just enough to hook his arms under Jon's thighs and Martin to support his upper body during the move, they brought him away from the countertop to settle on his knees atop a pile of duvets. As soon as he touched down, Tim went back to mouthing at his perineum and hole. Now with my space to manoeuvre, Martin began to lower himself to the floor.

"Martin, wake up, you're all being controlled!" As the man in question reached for Jon's cock, he remembered that his arms were no longer pinned under his chest. He hid as much of his genitals as he could behind his hands. "The Leitner, it's gotten to all of you—!"

Sighing again, Martin laid his hands over Jon's, easily covering them. After he'd gently pried them away, he called over his shoulder, "Could one of you...?"

"On it," said Basira.

_Clop._

_Clop._

_Clop._

Her stilettoes struck the floor like a countdown. At zero, she squatted at his side, accepting his wrists from Martin and pulling them behind. The touch of lukewarm metal was clue enough as to her intentions; sure enough, no amount of struggling was able to prevent his cuffing, and she kept a hand there to further hold him in place, the other caressing his heaving stomach. All he could do was twist at the waist and pant.

"Thanks!"

"Sure."

Frustration built up behind his navel. It was a squirming, roiling sensation that had him huffing little breaths to try and release some of the tension. Akin to _l'appel du vide_ , it tickled the bottom of his ribs, then swooped into the depths of his hips to carve a space for his butterflies to live. His chest was tight with it, his joints itchy with restlessness. It was unbearable.

And then his balls were nuzzled and his heart pounded and he recognised the wanting for what it was.

"Good?" Basira asked with a hint of amusement.

Blinking, he realised that while he was distracted, his body had sunken to the side and she was the only thing holding him upright. He tried to respond, but Martin, who'd been licking him from root to head, chose that moment to suckle it.

" _Unghff_ ," was his eloquent response, followed by a series of whimpers as Tim slipped in a finger and Martin fondled the balls still in his hands. Jon's sight had gone strange, seeing but not, unfocused but straining.

"You got him to shut up for once," he heard Melanie comment close to his ear, "Well done, boys."

She then bit the lobe—or did she pinch his nipple? She and Basira both got bolder, twin sets of nails scratching down his flanks. It was the same pleasure-pain of picking a scab, and one that lingered in their wake until he was incapable of following their movements. Someone bit his shoulder, another sucked a bruise into his neck, and then it was like a competition to see who could leave more and harder.

He groaned at the suction on his hollow of his clavicle, the teeth teasing his nipple, the tugging on his hair to reposition his head so they could access areas rarely touched. There was too much going on, too many hands and mouths and heated nerves, too many bodies—too hot and close and he could barely breathe—!

And then they were still.

* * *

_Oh, Jon,_ Martin thought as he slid his mouth off the poor thing's cock. There was a weak moan as he did so. Back on his haunches, he admired the desperate mess that was the man he loved.

Jon's cock, as he'd discovered firsthand, was a show-er, not a grow-er; fully erect he was still on the small side, slender and curved slightly to the right. His balls were similarly delicate, a small, sparsely-haired handful as pent up as its owner. The set was a dark, dusky rose, garnished with a pearl. As he wriggled for contact that was no longer there, the precum slid free to journey down his shaft until, finally, it dripped onto the duvet.

A keening sound from behind clenched teeth.

Tim met Martin's eyes from where he idled behind, running a hand along Jon's tensed leg, which stopped only to brush his thumb proudly against a trembling hip. From there it meandered from scar to love bite and back again 'til it could sweep the rim of his cute little areola, earning a small sob. Having been bruise-dark even before Melanie got to it, the bud was swollen like a pout. Tim's finger stuttered in its revolution as Jon's chest heaved.

The column of Jon's neck was mottled green and plum from the attention it had endured, save for his recent wound and adam's apple; a ribbon of desire laced through Martin at the thought of licking away the lazy dribble of blood or mouthing the tender bob. At tasting and being tasted in turn until Jon was fully his—known so completely he need never ask for anything again, owned so thoroughly that Martin could be tasted on his tongue. He wanted nothing more than to bind Jon with the softest silk and tease every sound imaginable from his throat.

Said throat called him back to the present with a forlorn cry.

At long last, Martin was able to drink in the abject pleasure etched into Jon's face: tears streaming from fluttering lashes, brow creased in need, cheeks blooming red like his arse had not so long ago... he couldn't help but kiss away the tears, then plant them on the bridge of his handsome hooked nose, his sharp cheeks, his lax lips.

When he drew back, Jon was staring in confused arousal, looking for all the world like a cat who was being deprived their rightful scritchies. Martin giggled and, cupping his jaw fondly, said, "Christ, Jon, you don't have to look at me like that! I know _exactly_ what you need."

"I... Mar... tin...?"

"I've got you, love, no fussing now."

" _We've_ got you," said Melanie, a little snidely. She reached to tweak the nipple Tim wasn't monopolising.

Jon's cheeks burned darker, as did his eyes. " _Ah_...! That's... wait, there's something...."

Martin shushed him, bringing his other hand up to tangle in his hair. With the additional leverage, he guided Jon's head down to rest on his thigh, while the others arranged the rest of him accordingly. He watched as the doe-like eyes slowly focused on his erection, and the subsequent shiver than ran down Jon's spine. Though that may just have been from Tim slipping his finger back inside his arsehole. Either way, Martin was content to stroke his hair, watch Basira leave to debrief Daisy, and listen to Tim and Melanie quietly debate how many fingers to use.

The thing about Jon was that he couldn't just _accept_ nice things; he had a drive to _earn_ every scrap of affection, every morsel of food, every breath he took. He _needed_ to feel like he'd given his pound of flesh or he would worry at the perceived imbalance until it drove him to snappishness or worse. No matter how much joy they all received from emancipating him from his inflated sense of propriety, he would never accept that alone as enough.

So Martin would let him _earn_ it.

"Ugh, would you just let _me?_ " Melanie finally snapped, slapping Tim's hand away, "It's not as if I bring my strap-ons into work! You'll have plenty of time to stretch him out to prep for this one." She gestured towards Martin's cock.

"Fine, fine! See if I care," he replied, very obviously caring very deeply. Moving out of her way, he mumbled something about a vibrator and hurried off.

It was just Martin, Jon, and Melanie.

" _Anyway,_ I'm the one who has the lube." Pulling it from the heap of supplies she'd gathered earlier, she squeezed herself a generous portion. She then grinned up at him. "Watch _this_."

With two fingers resting at his entrance, she slid the other hand along his perineum, pressing just hard enough to startle a moan out of Jon when she found his prostate; quick as you like, she shoved her fingers in to assault it from the other side as well.

Jon arched his back with a cry.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Martin took a grounding breath. There was no reason to be jealous. None at all. Just because _she_ had gotten the biggest reaction yet—!

 _You're being stupid,_ he scolded himself, _If everyone doesn't join in, we won't be able to do it right._ 'It' was something he hadn't quite found the shape of in his mind but every gasp, every bead of sweat, every twitch towards greater contact was a clue to some sublime revelation. He just knew if they dug a little deeper, pressed a little closer, they would reveal Jon's truest self.

_Hm, a diamond metaphor would do nicely for my next poem... or would that be too obvious?_

Jon was certainly sparkling like one, what with all the sweat. Martin would have to remember to soak a cloth for him to suck on.

In the spirit of teamwork, he got Melanie's attention. "Would you like the honors?—of being his first...?"

Her eyes glittered.

"Would you like that Jon?"

" _Haaah...!_ "

He gave her a nod and another squirt of lube for good measure.

"Yeah, that's right," she muttered as she sped up, "You going to cum for me Jon? Bet you want to. Bet you'd give _anything_ to. Won't even make you beg. Just spill it all out, like the hair-trigger arse you are."

Jon babbled something, voice cracked and climbing registers. Unable to chase his pleasure like he wanted, he slid further into Martin's groin, mouthing at his balls and breathing in his musk.

"You would be get off on that, wouldn't you," Melanie continued distractedly, "You like snogging balls? That the missing piece for you? Should chain you under your desk, we can take turns rubbing your nose in it 'til you can tell us apart on scent. Gonna fill up your nose 'til it's all you can smell. 'Til you can cum from just one whiff, paint the damn floors...." The more furiously Jon writhed in her grasp, the less coherent her dirty talk became, eventually devolving into a series of curses.

Not long after, his body arched again and he spilled against the duvet, groaning from deep within his chest. Martin wished he could have watched his face as he came, however, his warm, boneless weight held its own appeal.

Besides which, it wouldn't be long at all until the next round.

* * *

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Eyes still narrowed at Basira and her clubbing gear, Daisy said, deadpan, "Run that by me again."

Basira huffed impatiently. "We're finally doing something about Jon. You haven't missed much, since stripping him took so long—you know how Martin is—but we did already spank him to his limit."

"Uh-huh."

"It's _J_ _on_ , he's _delicate_ ," she scolded, as if his endurance was the thing worth questioning, "We had to start over every time he lost count, which he did constantly, and Melanie insisted on using Tim's belt instead of her hand."

"Suppose Bouchard's hand-rolling fags for the afterglow."

A sneer. "If he is, it's just for himself. I could feel him watching."

Daisy felt a headache coming on. "You're actually serious about all this."

"You're acting strange."

Her headed pounded, but it wasn't the headache. " _I'm_ acting strange? You want to fuck _Sims_."

"Hardly. I'd be just as happy if he wasn't so high maintenance."

A slight growl slipped out. If her partner, a former Sectioned officer, couldn't connect the dots, it had to be some spooky bullshit they were all exposed to.

 _And that makes me the only one who isn't affected,_ she thought grimly.

Aloud: "...Right. Here's what we're going to do: you go find some ginger, I'll deal with Sims."

Basira's eyes lit up the way they did when she made a breakthrough. "Figging? Good call. I'm on it."

_I just chose ginger because I've been craving Chinese. Should have known someone would find a way to make it into a sex toy._

Once Basira'd clopped her way out of the Archives (and hopefully cleared her head), Daisy stalked towards the breakroom, wrinkling her nose at the heavy musk coming from it. Her blood was already pounding in anticipation of the struggle they'd all put up—between Stoker's brawn, Blackwood's bulk, and King's feistiness, she was at a disadvantage if she wanted to take them down nonlethally.

The smell was even stronger when she slammed open the door and took in the sight of Sims' arse lit up like the sun from all the lube and slobber covering it. As King added another finger, he shuddered and mumbled some bullshit about recovery time. Good thing Blackwood set him straight—every time Sims opened his mouth, Blackwood swiped up some precum and spread it directly onto his tongue.

Daisy snorted. "You're being too delicate."

"That's what I've been saying," King grumbled, but she still let Daisy take over her spot.

Up close, she could see how sloppy they'd been in disciplining him—one cheek was darker than the other, which had way more welts from the belting, and they'd barely touched the back of his thighs.

 _Coloring's even at least_ , she thought, stroking the reddened skin, _Pattern's decent. Not the first time they've done kink._ She raised her hand and brought it down on an area that could use work.

"Pass me the belt," she said over Sims' yelp.

"Basira said—" Blackwood began.

"I'm just fixing it. Leave it like this and he can stay on one side to avoid feeling it."

Sims turned at the waist. "Daisy, please—!"

_Thwap!_

Already looking better.

She set about teaching them how to hurt him _properly._

Blackwood coaxed him onto hands and knees and pressed kisses to his wet face, between which he whispered, "You're doing so well, Jon, you're so beautiful like this."

"M-Martin...!"

A kiss.

_Slap!_

"I can see how much you're trembling," he continued. A kiss, and he stared rapturously at his shaky limbs, "You're working so hard to be good for us."

A kiss.

_Slap!_

"I won't hold it against you if you collapse, you know." He sounded eager for it, in fact, and kissed him deeply.

The door swung open again. Daisy recognised Stoker's gait even before he whistled.

"Can take more than you'd think from how scrawny he is," she said, showing off how much prettier he was now.

"Sorry I missed it," was his absent-minded reply. She noticed he held a string of beads and a plug, the latter of which he set down on the edge of the duvet heap. "Does this make up for it?" He handed over the beads.

They were small, barely better than fingers. She was about to say so when she saw the buttons on the handle. She turned it on.

_Vzzzzzz...._

The vibrations were stronger at the ends. Intrigued, she cycled through the patterns until she came across one that mimicked thrusting. "Yeah, this'll do." She turned it back off and motioned for the lube.

While slicking them up, she maintained eye contact with Sims, who couldn't seem to choose between silent begging or nervous glances at the toy, Stoker's shit-eating grin, and the penis under his nose. Ignoring the others' whining about her showmanship, she applied the lube as efficiently as possible so Sims wouldn't have time to get comfortable.

* * *

_Shit, shit, shit!_

Jon cursed the Leitner, himself, and Elias for the starting the damn situation, being careless, and being useless respectively. Not all of the eyes scouring him were present, he knew, anymore than the phantom pleasure that seemed to stroke the pleasure center of his brain directly. With the reduction of stimuli, he was able to gather his thoughts together again to think of a plan, yet the only thought that would stay was that he was _fucked_.

Amusement not his own swept through at his turn of phrase, simultaneous to Daisy's eyes, already a neutral brown, seeming to fade briefly to grey.

 _I wonder what Jonah Magnus would think_ , he thought as loudly as he could, _if he knew his life's work was being used by a worthless pervert to fulfill some—some ludicrous, pornographic fantasy? I can understand now how the Institute's_ reputation _was able to decay so, what with the_ imbecile _as its heart._

If anything, Elias seemed _more_ amused.

The urge to cast himself at a one-sided screaming match was quickly snuffed out by the brush of silicone against his buttocks. If he didn't come up with something soon...!

"I'll give—I'll perform oral sex!" Jon's mouth babbled before his brain could catch up. Left with no choice but to forge onwards, he clarified, "On you. If... that is... y-you don't have to do anything to me? Daisy. I'll, um. Eat you out." The last few words came out almost too quiet to hear, as if his voice was water unable to take the heat of his cheeks.

Martin gasped.

Tim and Melanie stilled, watching.

And Daisy raised an eyebrow. With a lecherous smirk, she rumbled, "Finally ready to behave. Knew the extra smacks would do you good."

He could hardly believe it had worked. "Uh, y-yes! That's—you're absolutely right!"

She stood up halfway, fluid as a predator, and encroached upon Martin's space until he was forced to scramble away, Jon's coltish hope leaving with him. While he was still deciding if the consequences would be greater if he stayed or tried to run again, Daisy made the choice for him; in the space of a blink she'd grabbed him by the scruff, settled back on the duvet, and driven his face between her legs.

"Well? Get to stuffing him," he heard her drawl.

Jon panicked.

He thrashed as best he could with three pairs of hands to restrain his hips and a fourth smothering him. It couldn't have taken more than seconds for them to regain control of his body—at the very least, that was how long it took for him to be distracted by his shallow, frustrating attempts to breathe. If he'd thought the scent of sex was overwhelming before, having his nose ground into its source was dizzying. Worse yet, Daisy had clearly just come back from a hunt, as her sweat and... _juices_... were particularly potent, especially when combined with the faintest trace of urine.

He had the brief mental image of her pissing on a fire hydrant like a dog—in broad daylight, no one brave enough to tell off such an intimidating officer—and was unable to tell if it was his overactive imagination, Elias playing mind games, or the Eye giving him an undesired truth.

Then he felt hands parting his cheeks and the first bead teasing up his perineum.

"Get on with it, Sims."

He got on with it.

Jon was ready to experiment based on overheard gossip and her subsequent reactions when Elias' mind made contact again. Word-like pulses of information whispered to lick here, suck there, and obeying earned him a wash of approval, a rush like a watercolor blot. He wanted to hate it and everything it represented, but he could barely breathe and barely move and his arse was too well-stretched to deny the velvety orbs pressed into it. _Anything_ that helped, any direction, any hint of fresh air wending through this fleshly tomb was a string he needed to grasp.

{ _Very_ good, Jon. Would you like to see how well you're doing?}

For a moment he was looking down at himself and bursting with a need he'd never quite felt and he could almost understand the lengths people went to soothe the demanding creature between his legs, his mouth was the best thing he'd ever felt, the molten roll of pleasure-want- _there_ circling like a hawk—!

And he was back to his body in time to hear the moan that ripped itself from his throat.

The borrowed pleasure thrummed in his cock and, without thinking, he tried to press it into the duvet. But the others had posed him arse up and legs apart, no satisfaction to be gained save the simulation of what his body wanted to be doing. That, and the burn of his punishments.

"You ready, boss?" Tim pressed closer, a stripe of heat with a dark anticipation in every hushed word. "This is the last one. God, should've done this to you ages ago. Don't worry, we'll make up for lost time and then some."

 _Christ, are they actually going to fuck me to death?!_ Jon felt a familiar terror claw up his throat. His first thought should have been to one of the far too many tales of bodies reduced to living, pulsing meat, but instead his mind fluttered to the Yang statement— _stifling heat pressing in all around him_ —Górka's— _not enough space to move, never enough to breathe_ —Popham's— _holding her breath and willing herself forward—_ the inexorable, inescapable pressure of a great oneness—a Totality—claiming him for its own. He almost felt on the verge of revelation—it wasn't unlike his run-in with Mike Crew, like the same processes leading to a different conclusion—!

Daisy yanked him back.

He filled his lungs.

The beads began to vibrate.

Jon immediately choked out what little air he'd been granted, and then he was buried back into moist warmth. The smell was different, as well as the build—Melanie? Did it even matter? His entire world had narrowed into a gasping, staticky void, a black hole crushing him. He was too, too close, he couldn't _breathe_.

"Elias!" he gasped, thankfully muffled beyond recognition by Melanie's pulling.

Unlike Daisy, she wasn't wholly focused on her own pleasure over his wellbeing, not that that was necessarily a _good_ thing; where the former had been rough on him, treating his head like an inanimate toy, she seemed to enjoy teasing him with air before denying him over and over again. Any time he thought he'd gotten a hang of the rhythm, she would violently press him ever closer until he was as worried about his nose breaking as he was asphyxiating.

Even if he had been able to keep up with her, the toy in his arse would have disrupted his focus. The sensations buzzed up and down the length of the beads, giving the impression of in-and-out motion without ever leaving his prostate in peace.

In.

He whimpered as the the beads shook their way into his core.

Out.

He keened as his rim was massaged from both sides.

In.

Another orgasm began to swell.

Out.

The vibrations danced away just before he could come.

"Looks like someone's close," Tim laughed, tracing the impression of the outermost bead with a finger, "What do you guys think: let him come on _this—_ "

He lightly slapped the base and Jon choked.

"—or give him something _real?_ "

Melanie angled his head to cut off all airflow. "I say we let him come on it, then changed the pattern to basic at the highest speed, really give him something to cry about."

Jon imagined going through it again—the rush of pleasure followed by the dreadful overstimulation, only this time it wouldn't be fingers torturing him...! His hips involuntarily humped the air, the beads buzzed at just the right spot, and his cock made the decision for them, jittering through another release.

"...Melanie, love the idea, but if I don't get inside him _right now_ he's going to end up one load short."

His head was released, yet he lacked the strength to pull away. He just lay there, folded over himself and useless, as she squirmed away to argue about something or other.

In.

His body jerked violently.

Out.

He panted, dazed.

In.

The world seemed to turn.

Out.

Martin's eyes met his as he laid him on his back.

The beads were pulled, vibrating, out of his arse, and Tim didn't give it time to miss them. Jon watched distantly as Tim slid in, sinking into Martin's lap more out of exhaustion than relaxation. Tim kept his thrusts steady but shallow until Jon's breathing calmed, then lifted his legs to hook over his shoulders.

It was almost nice.

Lacking the energy to struggle, he simply accepted that Martin would be stroking his hair, that Melanie would be massaging their combined ejaculate into every inch of him, that Daisy would be inspecting the quality of the rope they'd yet to use. For the first time since they'd begun, he was free of their overbearing heat and weight and scents. His scalp buzzed pleasantly, the pain from the spankings had dulled to a grounding burn, eyes he couldn't meet catalogued his experience to the one being that would remember it _ad infinitum_. Tim remained at the same pace but worked deeper so slowly that it was barely noticeable.

True to his word, Tim finished quickly. Holding Jon's legs in place, he slid back out. Then, oddly, he shifted to one side, passing a leg off to Daisy. At the same time, Melanie switched places with Martin, who stared covetously down at Jon from between his widely spread thighs.

Confused, Jon skimmed what he remembered of the Leitner for an explanation. _Something about compaction...? ...Oh no._

"I—I don't believe I'm flexible enough...," he protested weakly, even as they began to force his knees up and in.

"Wait," said Melanie, raising his hopes as quickly as she dashed them, "His arms are still cuffed? Should I... you know?"

Daisy stayed at him with danger in her eyes. "...Come to think of it, all Sims _really_ needs to do his job—" Midsentence, her eyes went distant, and she instead groaned, "Rather not listen to Bouchard whine about nerve damage. Take them off."

_Nerve damage?!_

A yank of the hair forced him to meet Melanie's gaze. With a smile like barbwire, she said, "Go ahead and misbehave, Jon. _I_ still think you're fine for another spanking."

A small, helpless moan spilled from him at the thought. Though it had mostly settled, the pain was such that he could not tell if the liquid heat he felt was bleeding or not.

" _Jon?_ " she prompted, holding the vowel threateningly.

Feeling a bit like he was selling his soul, he went limp in their hold and replied, "...I'll be good."

Without further ado, his wrists were afraid. He wasn't even allowed to shake them out—Melanie manipulated them to do it for them, and then he had other concerns, namely that his legs were bending, bending, 'til he thought for sure they would snap off at the hip.

But no, whether by the power of the Leitner or some undiscovered talent of his own, his knees landed next to his shoulders and were held in place so Melanie could draw his arms one at a time to rest wrist-to-ankle, elbow-to-knee-back, and bind him thusly. The position crushed his lungs from both directions sitting at an incline, only to get worse when he was laid fully on his back.

Jon wriggled. All he got for it was four hungry looks.

"Oh, _Jon_ ," Martin sighed lovingly, a tender, beatific smile crossing his face, "I'm going to make you feel better than you ever have before."

The stretch as he sunk in ached, but in a bearable way.

"You'll never have to worry about anything again."

A kiss to the back of Jon's knee where it peeked out behind his elbow.

"God, you're so... so handsome like this! N-not that you aren't _always_ handsome, but you really—"

His face was so painfully earnest that Jon couldn't help but murmur, "Martin, I...."

"Right," Daisy interrupted, pushing Martin's torso away, "I can't listen to this. Stoker, shut this one up." She nodded to Jon.

Tim gave a lazy salute and took the spot at Jon's head. Rather than bracketing his jaw, however, Tim knelt facing Martin and fiddled with the duvets until there was space to dip Jon's head back. Tapping Jon's mouth until he reluctantly opened up, he fed his soft cock directly down Jon's throat, his balls blocking off the other airway.

Within seconds Jon had run out of breath.

Elias' voice cut through the panic. {Jon, you know he won't pull out—not unless you give him a reason to.}

If he were willing to listen, he would have had to agree; if he played along and turned it into a real blowjob, he could at least time his breathing to when his nostrils were most clear. But he was defenseless and rattled and desperate to lash out, so instead he scoffed, {And when you say 'a reason', what you really mean is to suck him back hard? Why? So they can go down the queue again? Maybe recruit some of the regular employees—}

{Jon.} The very real trace of fear caught him as easily as any statement. {Unlike the previous owner of this Leitner, you handled an incomplete edition, and you did so within your own territory. Believe me when I say this ordeal is nearing its end.}

Jon swallowed without meaning to, then again with intention. Tim's hips stuttered and he breathed. Eager to be free of the book's influence, he began sucking with gusto. Martin's diligence helped as well, as his thoroughness in trying to please him distracted him enough that Tim could seek his own pleasure unimpeded by Jon's clumsiness.

Fondness, pride, the ever-present amusement—all leaked through their bond as Elias sent impressions of how best to meet an incoming thrust, to keep his teeth clear, to conquer his gag reflex.

For the first time, Jon truly understood just how powerful Elias was, if only because even in the midst of his psychic micromanagement, he _still_ managed to keep up a steady monologue. {Our Hunter has some measure of protection as well—now that she's no longer an active participant, I imagine she will shake it off. Tim, even with his, ah, _impressive_ stamina and refractory time, won't have the ability to continue. Melanie's taste for violence has been largely slaked. And Martin, well, he's waited a _long time_ for this.}

Thinking back, Jon realised Martin was the only one to have avoided orgasm. Even Basira, who he was just noticing never came back, had made him watch her masturbate to his pain.

 _If he's been holding back, maybe I can speed this along...,_ he thought, finding the strength to squeeze around Martin's girth.

"That's it, Jon," Martin gasped in concert with Elias.

When Jon tried to match his rhythm, he pinned him to prevent even that smallest of movements and continued his slow, steady pace. His hips snapped harder, deeper, until he was barely pulling out at all, like he couldn't bear to leave any part of him unfilled.

Soon, if he withdrew at all, it was beyond Jon's ability to process; more than crushed, he was beginning to feel _contained_ in a way that he'd never before experienced. There was a strange freedom in having his choices taken from him, one that had him relaxing into their vicious care with a small groan. Giving up did more than just absolve his guilt—once he accepted his powerlessness, the world blurred into simple shapes:

Warm weight holding him in place.

A rocking motion, like an infant's cot.

An achy pleasure at the base of his spine, which swelled and receded and swelled again, stronger. Cresting, then hurting, then reluctantly building once more.

The voice of his kin murmuring assurances, appreciation, echoed by the honeyed voice of his assistant.

Loving touches. Harsh, but loving all the same.

But then he tasted salt.

When, upon hearing Tim's voice shout in revulsion and his cock subsequently pulling from his throat, Jon pried open his eyes, it was just in time to be backhanded. He couldn't be sure who by, nor could it entirely dislodge his languor, but it sent a chill of unease through his core. Martin soon followed and he was left empty, helpless, and cold, fighting a losing battle against his burgeoning awareness.

"—was the Leitner, you _know_ that!" Martin, sobbing.

"You're _still_ defending this fucking moron after he _raped_ you?" Tim, face so twisted in fury he looked like another person entirely. "He _knows_ better—you've _seen_ how anal he is about those damn books! No, if he read a _fucking_ Leitner it was on _purpose_ and I am _not_ letting this fucking slide!"

Tim stomped out of sight, slamming every door he met on his quest to... confront Elias? Jon got the impression of 'monster school' and 'spooky extra credit' in his wake.

It hit him that the Eye was the most overbearing he'd ever felt it, and that jarred him enough to rasp, "I—I'm so sorr—"

Somewhere far away, Melanie laughed like a scream. Or was it far at all?

"This _fucking_ place," she snarled. She 'accidentally' kicked him as she stood and fled.

Not far, then. He was dimly worried about his mental state. Or would have been, if he wasn't so overwhelmingly _distraught_. And for what? Tim was _right_ ; _Jon_ had been the one to bring this down on them all, no outside influence involved.

_I'm... I'm a rapist. I'm a rapist. I raped my...._

"Jon, it's okay now, it's just you and me. I—I can—it _wasn't_ _your fault_ , okay? You _have_ to believe me, I _know_ you would never—" Martin babbled as he cut away the restraints. But as soon as Jon was free, even sweet, kind Martin couldn't bear to be with him—he reached out, hesitated, and drew away. "I, um, I'll—t-tea! I'll go—yeah! Wait, uh, wait right...!"

Jon rolled over and stared at the break room wall. Though his expression stayed blank, he felt his eyes leak.

_What am...._

_What am I supposed to do now?_

He couldn't fix it.

If he told the others to hurt him back, they would think it was for his own sake. And would they even be wrong? His tacky legs were damning evidence.

He'd hurt them again.

There was no going back.

What would Georgie think? God, _what would Georgie think?_

He couldn't even move so they wouldn't have to look at him any time they needed something from the break room.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was hopeless.

Jon buried his face into the filthy duvet. It wouldn't smother him on its own, but it was the least he could do. Except then someone (probably Martin) would have to deal with a corpse and the posthumous defecation and what if it was pinned on him and he was sent to jail because Jon was so _fucking useless_ that he continued to make everyone's lives worse even after death and who would cover the expenses? Unless Daisy buried him next to Mike Crew, where he belonged, but then what about the Unknowing? Would one of them be forced to become a monster? Would Daisy kill them too, once the world was safe?

Completely hopeless. He was a burden either way. And that knowledge was enough to feed into his cowardice.

He turned back to the wall, just in case, but found himself wondering if someone would find him there later and kill him in his sleep.

As long as he didn't think of gravedirt or worms, it was almost a comforting thought.


End file.
